


Interrogated

by BloodFromTheThorn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodFromTheThorn/pseuds/BloodFromTheThorn
Summary: d'Artagnan wasn't entirely surprised when Richelieu decided to frame him as a Spanish spy. Hewassurprised when the Musketeers believed him.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	Interrogated

As Richelieu’s manipulations went, even d’Artagnan had to admit this was a masterstroke. A combination of a few careful rumours, paying off a handful of mercenaries to stage an attack, and the oh-so-careful planting of evidence in his dorm room and suddenly d’Artagnan found himself surrounded by armed Red Guards in the middle of the street with no help in sight. Even when Treville had shown up, shouting something about the King’s orders and the authority of the Musketeers, the outcome had still been a swift, terrifying march to the Bastille and a series of freezing cold nights in a cell with no word from anyone.

In short, d’Artagnan was having a bad week.

The one positive of this whole awful affair was that apparently Treville still held enough sway with Louis to ensure his interrogation would be handled by the Musketeers rather than the Red Guard – keeping any dirty laundry in house, as it were – so he was probably faring better than he otherwise might. At the same time, it meant he found himself faced with the three men he would previously have said he trusted most in the world and being forced to look them in the eye as they questioned every decision he had ever made with open suspicion on their faces.

He shifted in his chair for the third time in as many minutes, wishing he could at least have his hands unbound so he could shake out the stiffness that had taken root. “I’ve told you,” he said again, weary, “I have no idea who Reynard is.”

“There are eyewitnesses who swear to have seen you meeting with him on multiple occasions.” Athos’ voice was stone cold, level and emotionless. Aramis and Porthos had at least had the grace to believe d’Artagnan in the beginning, before the evidence started piling up against him, but it was clear that their de facto leader had harboured no such hopes from the moment the chains were closed around d’Artagnan’s wrists. Richelieu had called him a traitor, and Athos had taken him at his word.

“Then they’re lying. I don’t know anyone called Reynard.”

“Did you know he was under the employ of the Spanish army when you met with him?”

“ _I never met with him_ ,” he stressed, knowing it would make no difference. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise half a second before the cane in Aramis’ hand flicked against his shoulder; more of a warning than an actual blow, but enough to sting all the same. He hissed. “It’s the truth. I don’t know how to prove it to you.”

“When did you last visit the Rue de la Lièvre?”

He thought for a moment, long enough for Aramis’ cane to come to rest lightly against his shoulder blade. “About a month ago,” he said eventually. “Not long after I arrived in Paris. I was exploring.”

"Exploring? Why?"

It was obvious Athos had immediately assumed he was doing something nefarious, but the truth was simply that Porthos had suggested he get to know his new environment should any more trouble come knocking at his door. It had been good advice and he'd happily done as he was bid - somehow he didn't think that explanation would help.

"I was new to the city. I'd never been to Paris before. I wanted to learn more about it since it looked like I'd be staying."

Instead of shooting off another question, Athos took a moment to lean back in his chair to examine him, his eyes sharp and unreadable. d'Artagnan, half starved and gradually freezing to death, stared balefully back, too wrung out and exhausted to even offer up any malice at the speed with which his so-called friends had turned on him. He wanted nothing more than for this to be over, no matter what the outcome might be.

Behind Athos, leaning casually against the wall with a dark expression heavy on his brow, Porthos opted for a different approach. "d'Artagnan, you haven't eaten in three days. I can see you shivering from here. If you tell us what we need to know then we can help you - get you some food and blankets. Maybe even get you out of here altogether. Reynard isn't worth your loyalty. Let us _help._ "

The act was good, very good. It might even have been believable if it hadn't been greatly overshadowed by Athos' presence looming large and the fact that yesterday, the cane had been in Porthos' hand. 

Still, it was as good an opening as any.

"If I knew the answers to your questions, _I would tell you_. I am loyal to France. I would never betray my King." 

_I would never betray the Musketeers_ hung cold in the back of his throat, but invoking their name had historically not gone well during these little chats and d'Artagnan was good at learning from his mistakes. He swallowed it down.

"The first time I heard the name Reynard was when you asked me about him. I have never been to Spain. I have never knowingly had any contact with anyone associated with the Spanish army. I would _never_ betray my country."

He was breathing too quickly, he realised with a start. He forced himself to take a deep breath and cursed himself when it shook. The cane brushed over the back of his neck.

Athos leant forward again with something unshakeable in his eyes. "Before your arrest, you were apprenticed with the Musketeers."

It wasn't a question, but he paused so d'Artagnan nodded.

"You had been with the regiment for about a month."

"Yes."

"Why did you join them?"

Despite his crippling exhaustion, he found the energy to feel a sudden surge of irritation. "It wasn't to uncover state secrets if that's what you're getting at."

The cane snapped sharply against his back with a thundering crack of sound. He cursed breathlessly, writhing until the pain ebbed enough to bite out a better answer. "I needed work and it seemed like a good fit. They were honourable men."

If Athos took issue with his use of the past tense, he didn't show it. "You agreed to risk your life in service of the King for so small a reason?"

"Athos," he breathed out, still shuddering with pain, "You know why I joined."

He had the gall to laugh at that. "It has become very clear that anything we thought we knew of you cannot be trusted. Answer the question."

It was the response he'd expected, but it still hurt to hear. Unbidden, he remembered how Aramis and Porthos had immediately and unflinchingly brushed aside his accusations against Athos when he had first met them, the ardency with which they held their ground against a tidal wave of suspicion. He'd had no misconceptions about his worth relative to their friend of many years, but their willingness to believe the worst of him still managed to catch him off guard. 

"I had nowhere else to go. My family is gone and I didn't want to resign myself to a lifetime of farming. The only other skill I have any claim to possess is swordcraft." Although given that one of the guards had broken his finger on his first night here and he hadn't been able to set it right by himself, it was perfectly possible he'd never hold a sword right again. Not that he had any real hope of getting out of prison alive at all. 

"You could have been a mercenary. I hear the pay's better."

"I wanted to serve my country."

"Which country is that?"

He sighed, deeply and with feeling, only to gasp in another breath when the cane came down again. He hissed through his teeth and pretended like tears weren't beading at the corner of his eyes. "France."

Athos hummed to himself. “It is very uncommon for apprentice Musketeers to be allowed the seniority you were by virtue of your relationship with us. Did you intentionally manipulate us to gain greater access to the King?”

He forced himself not to flinch and shook his head slowly. These questions were pointless - no one was going to believe a word he said anyway, even if he’d had the answers they were looking for. “No. I didn’t know anything about you when I met you. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have tried to kill you.”

"Why did you come to Paris?"

Not liking where this was going, d'Artagnan's answer was monotone. "My Father was hoping to petition the King for relaxing the taxes in Gascony. We'd had a few bad harvests in a row and people didn't have the money to pay them."

"Did you petition the King?"

"No. After my Father died, I abandoned his mission. I continued on to Paris in search of the man that killed him."

"Me."

"You."

There was a weighted, vicious pause, then, "Do you have any proof that your Father really did perish on that trip?"

The fury that overcame d'Artagnan was so sudden and so blinding that his muscles were trying to launch him out of his chair before his brain could remind him he was tied down. As it was, Aramis' hand caught him by the throat and slammed him back into his seat before he could do anything more than rock it violently forward. "Stay down," he hissed sharply, but softened the threat by turning to Athos and saying, "Porthos and I can confirm that, at least. We spoke to the innkeeper, saw the grave. His story's true."

The marksman's hand stayed curled around d'Artagnan's neck for several strained breaths, evidently a threat. As it was, d'Artagnan did nothing but try to breathe through the searing anger and crippling grief that had torn right through his centre. To be called a traitor was one thing, to question his Father's memory was altogether another. 

This was not the time or place to break apart, but d'Artagnan could feel the fault lines threatening to tear open. 

"d'Artagnan," Athos started, then hesitated. It was the first sign of uncertainty he'd displayed all day. "We just need to know what information you passed to Reynard, that's all. Tell us that and we can be done here."

He sounded earnest and that somehow hurt more, to know that Athos still cared just enough to not want to watch him starving to death, but too little to actually believe anything he said. d'Artagnan wished he had the strength to laugh. "That's easy enough," he said instead of trying to convince them any longer, "I told him nothing."

Porthos sighed heavily, pushing off from the wall to bring himself level with Athos, looming over the table like a dread spectre. "What is it you're protecting? What's more important to you than your own life?"

d'Artagnan briefly fought a losing battle against the urge to let his chin drop to his chest, his eyes slipping closed under the weight of his own exhaustion. When he spoke, even he could hear how defeated he sounded. "I'm not protecting anything. I don't know any Reynard, and whoever's claiming I do is probably who you're really looking for. If I could prove it to you, I _would._ "

Athos' lips thinned, visibly unconvinced. d'Artagnan flinched a beat before the cane flicked against the meat of his arm and cursed loudly at the sting. "It's the _truth,_ " he bit out, letting the frustration shine through. "I don't know the answers you're looking for."

"d'Artagnan, there are four different people willing to swear that you met with Reynard on multiple occasions and we found missives with his name hidden in your room, along with more money than you could ever have made from your farm. Do you really expect us to believe you don't know anything about the Spanish plot?"

If he'd had anything to drink in the last two days, he would have wept with his own frustration. "I know you won't believe me. It's still the truth."

In the corner of his eye he saw the cane twitch, but Athos waved Aramis down before the blow could land. He pushed away from the table with a heavy sigh. "We're getting nowhere today. Let's see if another night here helps to jog your memory."

There was a certain relief in that, free from the threat of the cane and the judgement in his friends' eyes, but it meant another night cold and hungry with no respite. He barely resisted the urge to groan.

"He needs water," Aramis put in quietly. "He'll last without food for another few days but he has to drink if we want him able to talk."

Athos nodded easily, accepting his ruling. "Speak to the guards, make sure it happens." With that he was gone, sweeping out of the room without another glance at the young man he would once have called brother and leaving a thoroughly defeated d'Artagnan to be frogmarched back to his cell by Aramis and Porthos in silence.

His promised water didn't appear for another few hours, when a guard he'd never seen before dumped a bucket in the corner of his cell with a thump. Sunken down on his little patch of straw against the far wall, d'Artagnan didn't react even when the guard cursed his name and spat on the floor beside him, taking care to slam his door with enough force to shake the room. It was one of the least offensive encounters d'Artagnan had had since his arrest; that awareness in and of itself was almost enough to put him off drinking the water after all. As it was, he eventually decided that tomorrow's interrogation would be even more tortuous if he was critically dehydrated at the same time, and he hadn't quite reached the stage of trying to kill himself.

Just as he had for the last however many nights, d'Artagnan spent his time curled tightly in a shivering ball in the corner of his cell, desperately trying to ward off the pervasive chill that swept beneath his door. One of the few benefits of his previous occupation was that the guards were sufficiently wary of him to not trust him with a windowed cell, so he at least didn't have to try to cope with wind and rain pouring into his tiny little portion of Hell, but it was far from comfortable. Frozen stiff and hopeless, he didn't sleep a wink.

The Musketeers were back at dawn, dragging him from his semi-aware fugue state and back into his gloomy little interrogation chamber without fanfare.

"Sleep well?" Aramis asked snidely as he bound his hands firmly back in place. d'Artagnan didn't bother to respond.

Even though he wasn't the one who spent the night freezing in a cell, Athos somehow managed to look even more drawn than d'Artagnan did when he settled himself down across from him. He slid a piece of paper across the table towards him without a word, his face pale and tight. 

A glance at the parchment showed a long passage of text with a signature scrawled at the bottom, followed by a very official-looking seal. Unable to reach for it and far too weary to try to interpret the scratchy handwriting at a distance, d’Artagnan just returned his gaze to Athos and waited for the inevitable question. 

“Do you know what this is?”

“No.”

“Do you recognise the handwriting?”

In an attempt to not anger Athos in the first few minutes of the day, he obliged him by casting a more searching glance over the page, but came away none the wiser. “No.”

“Do you recognise the seal?”

“Red Guard. Richelieu, maybe.”

The cane, back in Aramis’ hand, grazed against his collarbone. “ _Cardinal_ Richelieu.”

It was a testament to d’Artagnan’s sheer strength of will and his desire to not make things worse for himself than they already were that he was able to restrain himself from hissing, _Like you give a damn_. Instead, he clenched his jaw, and kept silent. 

Seemingly satisfied, Athos withdrew the paper to look at it himself. “This is the sworn statement of Gaspard Vincent - a resident on the Rue de la Lièvre."

"One of my witnesses," d'Artagnan said lowly, starting to connect the dots.

Athos hummed in agreement. "He claimed that he had hosted you and Reynard on several occasions, under threat of retribution should he reach out to the authorities."

"Claimed?"

There was a long, still pause during which d'Artagnan doggedly crushed the hope threatening to spark to life in his chest. Eventually Athos sighed. “He recanted his testimony yesterday morning. Twelve hours later, he reconfirmed his original statement.”

There was no doubt something meaningful there, but d’Artagnan was starving and exhausted and he had absolutely no desire to play Athos’ games. “Meaning?”

The cane rested carefully against his shoulder, a gentle caution to watch his tone. That he hadn’t already received a blow was… unusual. “It means we have reason to doubt his word.”

“Why did he reconfirm?” There was a telling pause. “You think someone threatened him, don’t you? You’re just trying to work out which way the intimidation went.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell us that he only testified against you because he was being threatened?”

d’Artagnan couldn’t help momentarily raising his eyes to the heavens as though to plead for strength. “I’ve been telling you that for five days.”

“Buying off one witness wouldn’t explain everything else. We found evidence of treason in your _room_ d’Artagnan.”

“You really think someone with the power to make a handful of witnesses appear on command couldn’t get into my room? I wasn’t even _there_ the day I was arrested.” The cane snapped harshly against the meat of his back, but he forced himself to keep his voice level. With bruises layered over bruises, he found it faintly remarkable he could still feel the pain at all. “I spent that entire night in The Wren, watching _your_ back when you decided to drown yourself in a wine bottle. Do you really think it’s an impossibility that someone snuck into the house when I wasn’t there?”

He heard the cane whistle through the air, but Athos flicked a hand up and the strike never came. d’Artagnan breathed out slowly. “You _were_ in The Wren,” Athos confirmed quietly, his eyes far away and distant as though he was only just now realising this fact. “I remember you being there.”

If his hands had been free, he thought he might be tearing his hair out in frustration. “Why on Earth does that make any difference?”

When no immediate response was forthcoming, Porthos inched forwards to fill the silence. “It makes a difference because another witness claimed you met with Reynard that night.”

d'Artagnan blinked, breathed, then surprised himself by laughing sharply. "Of course they did."

"I-" Athos started, then halted uncertainly. He threw a wild look in Aramis' direction, clearly thrown. If he hadn't already known, d'Artagnan would need no more evidence that Athos had entirely forgotten about his presence in the inn that evening. 

Porthos' hand landed on his shoulder, steadying. "We need to talk to that witness. No sense hammering d'Artagnan any more today if we're not sure about those statements."

For something that seemed as though it should have been a thrilling redemption, their session ended with remarkably little fanfare after that. Athos and Porthos disappeared before Aramis had even got him untied, and it was clear the marksman had absolutely no intention of offering him any further information. He had a vague sense that the man thought they had already said too much.

d'Artagnan knew that pressing for answers was futile and as likely to backfire on him as help, but all he could see was Athos' lost expression when he'd realised a second witness had been caught lying. Despite everything, he found himself turning to Aramis just before his hands came free. "Did he hesitate? When Richelieu called for my head, and I was arrested- Did he hesitate?"

His voice sounded raw to his own ears, and maybe that was why Aramis didn't immediately lash out. The tears shining bright in his eyes might also have had something to do with it.

"We all did."

There was nothing he could say to that that wouldn't hurt them both. He walked back to his cell in silence.

What followed was an awful lot of nothing. He heard nothing more from the Musketeers for three full days, but his outlook did brighten substantially when his now-daily bucket of water was joined by a hunk of bread and cheese, and a small collection of blankets was quietly deposited in his chilly corner. It wasn't comfortable by a long shot, but it was miles better than what he'd had and it was a strong sign his future might hold something more substantial than a slow, miserable death and an unmourned grave. 

With so little contact with the outside world, he had no real idea what to expect when a guard appeared in his doorway and ushered him out without an explanation. For all his new-found comforts, he still wore the weight of days without food and water, spattered with bruises and aching in ways he hadn't known possible, so when he was led through a door into the sunlight he could do little more than blink, half-blind and confused. The guards flanking him retreated in silence and it was only after he watched them leave that he turned his head to see Athos, Porthos, and Aramis standing before him.

All three of them looked unsure of themselves, clutching their hats to their chests and watching him warily. 

"What's going on?" He rasped, though he was starting to catch on quickly. He’d initially assumed he had been led into an inner courtyard for whatever reason, but as his eyes adjusted to the light it became clear he was standing in the square that fronted the prison. Well beyond the Musketeers, he could see the bustle of people going about their business like always. The guards wouldn’t have left him here, Musketeers or no, unless they no longer felt the need to keep him contained. 

After an uncertain heartbeat, Athos stepped forward. “Your name has been cleared. The King has issued a pardon, and an apology for your treatment.” He hesitated, then added softly, “We need to apologise too.”

d’Artagnan considered that for a moment. He thought about every bruise he could feel prickling against his skin, every harsh word, every sleepless night, took a deep breath and held it. When he felt steady enough, he met Athos’ eye. “I’m free to go?”

“Yes.” He untucked a bundle from beneath his arm and held it out carefully - d’Artagnan’s sword and pistol. “The rest of your belongings have been returned to your lodgings.”

He had to force himself not to recoil at Athos’ nearness, but he reached out to reclaim his weapons all the same, tucking the belt back around himself like an old friend. He half-wanted to scorn the offering, but it was his Father’s sword and no amount of spite was worth losing it now; the moment it was back in its rightful place, he felt strength starting to leech back into his bones.

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis started, sounding wrecked, only to cut himself off when his eyes snapped to the marksman’s. 

He looked around the three of them for a moment, taking in their guilt, then made a careful sidestep and walked straight for the main gate without a word. None of them tried to stop him, but he heard at least one of them suck in a sharp breath as he marched forcefully past them; he tried very hard not to take any satisfaction from finally, _finally_ having the upper hand. 

As cornered as it had made him feel, his friends’ ambush had served one purpose: he knew where he needed to go to collect his things. A quick stop during which he was viciously grateful his landlord and lady weren’t home, and he was free to put the garrison and its Musketeers at his back and start walking. 

He was gone from Paris by nightfall. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was entirely inspired by why-this-kolaveri-machi‘s recent ficlet on Tumblr - [check it out!](https://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/post/638394460958588929/dartagnans-father-is-alive-and-a-spy-for-spain)


End file.
